


Ciacco

by TrekFaerie



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekFaerie/pseuds/TrekFaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out to be exactly that kind of party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ciacco

**Author's Note:**

> getting in at the front of this hype train choo choo!

She doesn't know why she said it.

_"Is it that kind of party?"_

_Hannibal's lips part, to speak, the beginnings of a false smile pulling at the edges._

_But her Marsala-soaked tongue slips faster. "It could be," she says, eyes turning up to catch Hannibal's own. "If you want."_

Well, in truth, she knows why she said it. Generally. She's just not entirely sure of her exact reasoning for it.

Perhaps she likes this man. Perhaps she likes him enough to secure him one last night among the living. Perhaps she hopes this man, a sardonic simulacrum of a singular someone, will sate his appetite in one way to quench an entirely different thirst.

Perhaps she just wants to be touched by hands not soaked in blood.

She couldn't even rely on her own for that.

That's probably the right one.

They make their way to the salon, Bedelia spread out archly on the settee, Hannibal and Anthony on the floor, one on top of the other. Anthony was on his knees, bent over, which she thought a blessing; the resemblance was a lot more uncanny if you couldn't see his face.

(Fine as his face might have been, it wasn't the one Hannibal wanted to see. And Hannibal seeing what he wanted was his only chance to get out alive.)

Large, strong hands pull up clothing, and she winces; she knows that, in the haze of pleasure, he'll search for scars that won't be there, and be disappointed. She watches his hands ghost over the man's stomach, and she knows all is lost.

"Are you observing or participating?"

It shocks her out of her reverie. She isn't used to that question being asked without the scent of blood in her nose. All she can smell is wine and sex.

His eyes repeat the question, head cocked to the side in his curious little way. Anthony looks at her as well, face flushed a pretty red. The stab of pity doesn't prevent the flare of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

She crosses her legs at the ankle, bites her bottom lip to the point of tenderness. And observes.

In just a few days, she'll be devouring his flesh. And she'll like it.


End file.
